


People Keep Telling Me That Life Goes On

by Aqua_Scales



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depressed Dean Winchester, Depression, Hurt Dean Winchester, Mild Blood, Sam Winchester Has Puppy Dog Eyes, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-19 00:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17591453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aqua_Scales/pseuds/Aqua_Scales
Summary: Dean has trouble adjusting to life on the outside. Sam has terrible timing.Short/One Shot. Season 4 AU.





	People Keep Telling Me That Life Goes On

**Author's Note:**

> A short I wrote yeeeears ago.   
> Dean is a sad, sad baby boy. Join me in the sadness pits!   
> Not beta'd. Mistakes are my own.

“Dean. What the hell?!”

Dean is pretty sure it’s obvious what’s going on. There are very few reasons a person holds a gun to their head. Still he hadn’t expected him back so soon. Sam was the king of bad timing. 

Dean sat barefoot at the edge of the motel bathroom’s beige tub. All he wore were the tired jeans he’d put on that morning. The tile was cold on his bare feet but the gun in his hand was warm. That seemed important somehow. 

“Dean this isn’t funny.”

“You’re right, Sam this isn’t funny.”

“Just... Just put the gun down. We can talk—“

“Talk!? You mean where you tell it isn’t my fault that we’ll figure it out that this isn’t the answer that I’m not thinking clearly that I have so fucking much to live for! IS THAT THE TALK YOU WANTED TO HAVE SAM?!”

“Hey!”

“Bullshit! Its psycho babble bullshit and I don’t need it! I wasn’t supposed to come back, Sam. I’m supposed to be dead and I just keep getting dragged back. You. Dad. Fucking angels! I’m tried Sam I just—“

“Hey! That’s a crap excuse and you know it. You brought me back too, remember? I’m supposed to be dead same as you.”

“It’s not the same.”

“It is.”

“It isn’t. You had a chance! You got out once. I was only ever a soldier. That’s all I was ever good at; it was all I was ever going to be good at. All I could do was fight and I can’t even do that anymore. What’s the point?”

“I...”

“What’s the point Sam?! Is it watching the people we’re supposed to protect die? Is it watching our friends dies?” 

At the last his voice gave out.

Sam is already there, gently taking the gun from his hand. Dean lets him. The fight as gone. He hunches forward and hangs his head, barely bothering to hide the tears that silently flowed down his cheeks.

“I’m going to put this away and we’re going to talk,” Sam says gently as if speaking to a frightened child.

Dean didn’t reply, he stand silently hand weakly gripping the rim of the beige motel sink.   
Weak! He was so fucking weak! He can’t even do this right!

Just as that thought makes its way through his head, his anger swells and it suddenly clear what he needs to do.  
.  
.  
Sam hears a terrible crash. He rushes back to find his brother with his right fist embedded in the mirror. Large shards of glass fell to the floor.

Jesus. You shouldn't have left him alone for so long!

Dean lets out a bellow of rage as he swings his bloodied fist into the glass for a second time.  
Again! He screams in his head, again and again and...!

On the fifth swing Sam finally moves. He grabs Dean’s wrist and pulls him away.

Dean lets his knees buckle. Sam has to grip the door frame to keep from falling onto the glass covered floor but he doesn't let go. Dean doesn't care. With his free hand Dean grabs a large piece of mirror and it takes Sam only an instant to see what his brother is planning. It's an instant too late.

Dean takes the razor sharp glass and slashed his right arm, the arm Sam unwittingly has pulled out straight and firm and perfect. Dean cuts lengthwise from wrist to elbow. He tries to cut deep but he moves to fast. The glass is sharp but not durable and it breaks off in his arm midway, leaving a trail of tiny shards along the way. It's enough though he hopes. 

Blood flows freely from the wound, soaking through his jeans and splattering the floor crimson. His vision clouds with the pain and the blood loss. He goes limp and feels more than he sees Sam release the arm and rush to bind the wound.

He hears Sam shouting something. Dean doesn't try to listen. He hopes he is lucky that the wound is deep enough, that he dies here on the cheap hotel tile. He isn't even afraid to go back to hell. He knows that's probably where he's going but it doesn't matter, he's already been. He knows hell. Hell is easy. So much easier than it is topside. It's always black and white in hell. Or maybe black and red is more accurate? There are no grays in hell, everyone there was there for a reason, just like him.


End file.
